


Sticky Tack

by DirtyMasonJar



Category: South Park
Genre: Adultery, Childhood Friends, Divorce, Drama, Fluff and Angst, Gay, M/M, Major Character Injury, Recovery, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-19 14:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14238867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirtyMasonJar/pseuds/DirtyMasonJar
Summary: Kyle Broflovski has a lot of regrets. He's divorced, despondent, and stuck in a job he absolutely despises. When a stroke forces him to return home to South Park to recover, he is reunited with his best friend (and childhood crush) Stan. Stan is married to Craig Tucker, has a little girl, and is well into a new life that was never meant to include Kyle. Getting better gets really weird for them both.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> New story, because I love watching Kyle struggle! May potentially edit this chapter again. Hope you enjoy it. : ) Also, the name of the research company is the name of an actual research company, but...it's not based on that company? Just went with the first name that popped into my head.

When Kyle first became cognizant of his symptoms, he was sitting at his ergonomic desk, surrounded by stacks of manila folders held together with plain silver paperclips, eyes glazed as he ran analytics on his computer yet again. Said ergonomic desk had water stains from the sour energy drinks he unabashedly loved so much: bright, abrasively designed cans of Red Bull and Monster. The oak top was covered in sweat rings.  He was on his 15th hour of overtime for the week, but that was fine with him. Overtime was better than facing his home, where store brand canned soup and Netflix awaited, reminding him that most of his decisions up to that point had been kind of terrible.

They were especially terrible when it came to his love life.           

He’d managed to divorce his partner within three years of their marriage and the anniversary of them signing their papers was coming up sometime that month. He’d rejected what could have been his childhood sweetheart prior to that, insisting that he just _didn’t know_. He had to meet other people, he had so much growing to do, he had a career and a life to develop and passions and…maybe one day? He couldn’t just settle in South Park _then_ , before he even got a chance to go to college. He needed to leave, at least for a little bit. His eighteen-year-old best friend had been crushed, then disappointed. He texted Kyle for a while, then only texted holiday greetings, then the line of communication died, leaving Kyle with the kind of silence that ached in a pronounced way, slowly ebbing to a sort of pesky, painful reminder that flared over the years, rearing its head at specific times.

Specific times like Stan’s birthday. Also, that time of year when Girl Scouts sold cookies because Stan would snort down a box of Do-si-Dos in a single sitting during his teenage years. Or When _Carry on My Wayward Son_ played, because of fucking Guitar Hero. They played that stupid game so much.

Admittedly it crushed Kyle too. It went against his every instinct, rejecting Stan. He’d had a crush on Stan for what felt like forever by the time his super best friend confessed his feelings, even before Kyle understood his bisexuality. It was so obvious in retrospect. Horsing around had always been such a pleasure and he was so handsy with Stan in private, desperate for the slightest physical contact, borrowing Stan’s clothes and taking weeks to return them. It was nothing like his friendship with Kenny or David.

If only Stan had asked him out before they were right on the verge of heading off to their respective futures.

All Kyle managed to accumulate since those days was more student loan debt than he could have ever imagined and a fancy piece of paper to prove it, a haphazard backpacking trip across parts of Europe, a meticulously filed accrual of his mother’s complaints he pushed away to the back of his mind, and a penchant for smoking weed and playing MMO’s to avoid the (from what others could see) seemingly pretty good reality that he actually despised, minus the whole divorce thing, which was notably shitty to others.  His divorce was still taking some getting used to. Winner winner chicken dinner.

 It didn’t matter really.

Kyle felt empty with his wife, empty without. He’d fallen into that age-old existential dread lately, the same thing that he’d been juggling with since he was a little boy, way back when he found fart jokes and Terrance and Phillip funny. The pattern was recurrent. He was on auto drive.

What did matter was an insane migraine that reared its head out of nowhere.

It was 9:30 PM, well past the normal closing time, when Kyle’s right hand felt like it was stuck to the mouse. It wasn’t because of any sort of Red Bull stickiness, didn’t have that gross, gooey sort of feeling. It was like his hand was stuck in some sort of sleep paralysis limbo. He thought to himself that he had to be _really_ tired to be feeling like this. Like borderline delusional tired, which really was more than he ever wanted to give to his job at Delve Research.

 He hated his job.  He’d hated it for years. Why was he wasting his time here? The only other person crazy enough to still be meandering around the office that late at night was Rebecca, his sole friend in the whole organization, and she bordered on robotic. Hell, she was nearly able to crunch numbers as quickly as the computer systems everyone worked with. As much as he tolerated her more than anyone else, she was by _no_ means who he aspired to be.

He just had to get moving. His migraine felt like it was getting worse.

Why the fuck wasn’t his hand moving? He focused in on it, set his intention like all those productive positive bullshit blogs always suggested. Move. _Move._ Grab the cans. Throw them away.

_Do something._

Anxiety rattled through Kyle, sharp as a switch flipping and a cruel instantaneous jab of electricity. He didn’t understand what was going on. His hand felt like it was seriously paralyzed, asleep without the tingling sensation. His breathing became heavy and warm, the terror expanding to occupy the entirety of his stomach. He usually understood things. He was really, really good at understanding things. He tried desperately to make sense of the moment. Why couldn’t he move his hand?

God, none of the answers could be good.

“Rebecca?” he called out. Kyle strained to hear her.

No response. Strange, because Rebecca was a woman of habit: consistent in most ways, from her day of the week corresponding sweaters to the type of sandwich she brought for lunch (organic orange marmalade with white chocolate swirled peanut butter on generic white sandwich bread). One of those habits was saying goodbye to Kyle before she left if he was still in the office—typically a terse sort of goodbye, always comforting despite its stiff nature, consistently blissfully brief and devoid of small talk.

She hadn’t said goodbye. She was in the office, no doubt.

The right side of Kyle’s face felt heavy.  

“Rebecca?” he tried again. This time he realized that there was no sound issuing from his mouth; his thoughts were stuck, not quite making it to the production phase. “Rebecca! REBECCA!”

Nothing.

He tried to move his right leg experimentally and was relieved to find that he could make it work properly if only he wasn’t too terrified to actually move from his seat.

Kyle used his good hand (and god, that was such a horrific way to think of it) to dig his phone out of his pocket and plop it on the desk in front of him, his palm shaking as if it was trying to make up for the inanimation of its twin. He tried to steady himself, knew panicking wouldn’t help, but everything in him wanted to wail like a banshee (or, alternatively, Cartman).

Kyle typed in the password, then pulled Rebecca’s cell up on the contact page. He rang her and she picked up immediately.

“Kyle, why are you calling me?” Rebecca asked. He could hear rapid typing in the background. He imagined her line of thought too: why was he calling her when they were _both still in the office?_

“Rebecca, I need you to come to my desk,” he tried to say. His left hand came up to his curls and tugged hard enough to make his scalp sore. He wanted to rip it all off and rattle his brain, not to mention that he despised when his hair got thick like this, bordering on being as robust as his childhood fro. He'd get a haircut when he felt better tomorrow.

“Kyle, I’m busy with a very important set of equations. You’re not usually the type to engage in the ridiculous office antics that these halfwits _insist_ on engaging in. Besides, we’re one day short of being a week past April’s Fools Day. You know that I find no humor in pranks.” She paused. “Kyle, it’s abnormal for you to not respond to perceived offenses.”

She had no idea how badly he wanted to respond to her perceived fucking offenses.

“Are you okay, Kyle? I’m coming to your desk.” He grunted in relief. The slap of Rebecca’s prissy ballerina flats against the stained concrete floor was a godsend.

“Kyle, are you okay?” Rebecca said, as she rounded the corner and opened the door to his office. As soon as Rebecca was in Kyle’s view, he started gesturing violently with his left hand. “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” The theatrics of his arm-waving increased.

Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest, atop the offensively bright paisley sweater that she insisted on wearing every Friday. Kyle and she squabbled frequently about the sweater’s merits. She thought the sweater was _vivid_ and _expressive_. Kyle thought it looked like the product of a disinterested boy that managed to get a B in middle school art—him and Stan, essentially. 

Really, it honestly looked like something Butters would put together, who grew up to be a particularly flamboyant young man. Made sense. He _was_ a tap dancer. More importantly, he had married Kenny, who had a penchant for both Bedazzlers and trucker hats to equal extents.

She gave him a once-over, examining him in silence. There was something distinctly medical about it. It reminded him of when they’d been kids, playing doctor. She was one of the very few people he’d kept in touch with after high school.

“Kyle, can you not talk?” she questioned. It seemed like the inquiry was just a good will gesture; she was already digging through her satchel for her own phone.

Kyle shook his head. Rebecca finished dialing 9-1-1.

“ _Oh dear_. I’m going to call the doctor, Kyle. Stay calm.”

Kyle shot up from his seat. Rebecca walked up to him and pushed gently on his shoulder, directing him back to the seat. “Sit down, please. _Oh dear._ Hello, operator? I believe my friend Kyle has had a stroke.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle goes to the hospital. He has a few overnight guests.

Kyle supposed that having Rebecca there mid-stroke was better than having nobody there, but she wasn’t exactly the ideal fit for a supportive party in a crisis: she tried, she really did, but her comforting felt stiff, almost robotic, as if soothing others was a language that she understood from only an elementary level—just the technical bits, really.  While there was a perfect place somewhere in that moment to pepper a snide remark or a biting joke, both Kyle’s bark and bite had been sapped from him rapidly. His headache had overtaken his focus, leaving him feeling an odd mixture of deeply pained and complacent. His vision was starting to become fuzzy, like he’d emerged from a pool and was wearing dark underwater goggles still streaked with water.

Diabetes probably didn’t help this scenario. Hell, maybe it was his diabetes that prompted the stroke. He’d gotten lazy over the past few weeks, indulging in takeout and pre-prepared foods that enabled him to work at his desk for longer and longer hours, until he eventually went home and slouched into his computer chair at eight to grind and prepare his main for the new update on WoW. Healers gotta heal.

 When he was with his wife, he’d been pretty good about exercising and watching his blood sugar meticulously, not that he’d even been sloppy prior to their commitment. Even after the divorce, he’d been doing well, injecting insulin as needed and eating more spinach and kale salads than he’d ever wanted. Cartman would find the whole thing hilarious, calling Kyle a hippy, while Stan would probably be impressed with Kyle’s food decisions. Kyle’s childhood super best friend gotten really into natural eating a year or so before their fallout. What would he say now?

Kyle’s tendency to order supreme calzones with extra cheese from Jerry’s down the road was a pretty recent development.

Fuck, if he traded a few weeks of foodgasms for his life, he was going to be _pissed_.

After ending her call with the dispatcher, Rebecca shoved the phone down in her pocket and worked at her lip, finally saying, “They should be here in a couple of minutes. I-I-I’m t-terribly sorry, Kyle.  You have diabetes, correct?”

Kyle nodded weakly.

“Then it’s likely an ischemic stroke, statistically speaking. If the attack occurred fairly recently, and you haven’t been sitting with symptoms, they’ll be able to conduct a course of treatment including Alteplase. I don’t think you’re at risk of dying at this point.”  She paused and rubbed her sweaty palms together; a nervous habit Kyle was unfortunately very familiar with.

It was the same thing she did whenever they were in a meeting and she was moments from dropping a bomb on the team, pointing out a critical flaw in the way they were conducting whatever research project they were on. It could be an issue with providing inadequate compensation for participants, or a problem with the statistical analysis, or even a fundamental flaw in their project’s premise. Recovering from said fuck-up in always set them back weeks, if not months, and it always chaffed Kyle’s ass. Rebecca rubbing her hands together usually meant required overtime, with little to no exemptions.

She wasn’t the most popular person in the office because of this, but neither was Kyle. Different reasons, though. He wasn’t excited to hear what she said next.

“There may be some after effects,” she said, after taking a strained moment to decide on her words. Kyle knew that. He did. Regardless, hearing it from Rebecca added gravity to the situation—a sense of doom, because Kyle knew that more often than not, Rebecca was right when it came to anything that was a matter of facts or logic. “I hope your recovery is spontaneous and swift, Kyle. I truly do. Now let’s get you outside. I forgot to tell them this building has multiple stories, my apologies.” She retrieved what she was looking for in her purse, lifting it up as if she was Link holding up a precious rupee he’d procured from a pot he’d smashed. It was a tidy little candy, the color of rosé, twisted at each end. She placed it in Kyle’s lap delicately.

“Sugar-free Almond Roca,” she said.

He’d complained earlier that week about Rebecca’s candy dish. It was something she kept regularly stocked, a way to appease people when her words wouldn’t do it, especially when she shook up the office during meetings. Those days, she made a point to always have the dish filled to the brim with good chocolates. There was never anything sugar-free, which Kyle had pointed out during one of his admittedly bitchier moments, shortly after bickering with her over the wording in one of the reports that _he_ was the main writer for.

An overwhelming feeling struck Kyle, sharp enough to puncture the cloud of fuzzy confusion that had swallowed him. He knew he needed to cry or laugh hysterically, whether it was from gratitude, fear, or the sheer absurdity of being given a candy in the middle of a crisis.

He had trouble determining which. The eventual tears provided some clarity.

 

 

It took them five minutes to make it out to the curb. Rebecca had decided on wheeling Kyle out in his computer chair. Kyle had attempted to assist her first, using his legs to drive his makeshift vehicle forward, but it had only resulted on them eventually snagging on a doorway, sending Kyle spilling. He’d ended up in a heap on the floor, not quite stuck, but not coming up easily. His right hand was still useless, hanging at his side like a puppet arm, and his whole body felt shaky. It was an infuriating mixture of embarrassing and anxiety-inducing trying to get back into place, as if he was a goldfish that had managed to make its way out of its tank and was left flopping on its owner’s counter. Gold fish were useless, and Kyle refused to think he was.

There was very little Kyle despised more than _needing_ help.

Kyle wasn’t heavy, but he wasn’t exactly slim anymore either. It took a concentrated effort to pick himself up off the floor, aided by Rebecca, who was grunting and sweating by the time they finally got him situated back in the chair.

He was thankful for the chorus of sirens that greeted him outside, both for their speed of arrival and for the familiarity. His childhood had been a weird one and he’d never been the sturdiest when it came to his health; the emergency room wasn’t precisely comforting, but it felt normal considering the number of times he’d visited. The ER was routine, even. Two individuals in tidy EMT uniforms rushed to him: a pretty, sturdy woman with a tight ponytail and a tall man with the beginnings of a five-o’-clock shadow. The woman approached him. “Are you Kyle?” she asked, as she finished snapping on dark latex gloves.

“Yes, he is,” Rebecca answered with an edge of desperation in her normally level voice.

“Can you tell me your name?” the EMT continued, looking directly at Kyle, lowering herself to meet Kyle’s gaze. 

Kyle glared.

“He can’t talk,” Rebecca added.

He opened his mouth, lulling, making a concentrated effort. She waited, glancing over towards her coworker. It was obvious to Kyle she didn’t have time to wait. After 30 seconds, he finally spit out, “Kyle.” Another EMT vehicle rolled up. “Mr. Broflovski, right?”

He nodded.

“We’re going to have you go into the EMT that just arrived. It’s a stroke response unit. They’ll be right over.” She walked over to the other EMT that was with her and talked quickly, pointing in the direction of the newly arrived vehicle.

The man nodded quickly and made his way over. The woman with the ponytail returned. Rebecca was white knuckling Kyle’s computer chair and grinding her teeth.

“Kyle, my name is Jennifer,” the woman said. “And I’m going to let you know what we’re about to do. Right now they’re rolling over a gurney. We have a CT scanner in that vehicle that we’re going to use to confirm that this is a stroke. We’ll do one of those scans and a few other tests first. We’ll be able to provide you with medication right away. We’ll do that, and then we’ll take you to the hospital, okay?”

He nodded. She continued talking, but Kyle spaced out, focusing in on what he wanted to say. He needed to make sure that she knew that he understood her, that he felt their actions were acceptable. He needed to give her some sort of verbal confirmation. Something.

“Acceptable,” he blurted out.

“Good. Now I’m going to ask you a series of questions and have you do a few things for me while they’re coming over. Say this, please: I ate a bowl of Cheerios.”

Kyle shook his head rapidly. It was hard enough to say okay.

“Smile, please.”

He smiled. He was certain his face had to look awful.

“How old are you, Kyle?” she asked. The door of the stroke response vehicle popped open and a new set of medical professionals were rushing around inside. The whir of the automatic stretcher’s wheels dropping rung in Kyle’s ears.

He raised his left fist, lifting two finger first, jabbing in the woman’s direction. He adjusted it again, raising five fingers, then four.

“Twenty-four?”

He repeated his motion, jabbing a little more aggressively.

“Twenty-nine?” the EMT tried again. Kyle nodded.

“Hold out your left arm?” Kyle did it with ease.

“And your right?”

Kyle focused on the motion, putting his intent into words, chanting in his head: _lift your arm, lift your arm, use your bicep, lift your arm_. He couldn’t make it happen. He let out a frustrated growl, banging against the side of his computer chair with his left hand.

“What month is it?”

Thirty-seven seconds. “Apple.” The new twosome that approached, a duo of fit men, helped Kyle onto the stretcher. He couldn’t help but think the situation would be nice, being serviced by two hot guys, if only under different circumstances.

It was April.

Kyle didn’t die. A morbid part of him wanted to joke that he wished he’d had, because he was dead tired by the time he went through multiple tests, an IV line pumping the exact drug Rebecca had mentioned, and doctors spazzing out about his blood sugar and blood pressure. He wanted nothing more than to snooze and wake up to some lackluster sugar-free Jello, preferably three days later rather than 7-8 hours.

Like always, Sheila Broflovski had no intention of letting Kyle rest ever happen, even during an emergency.  Kyle hadn’t, much to his disappointment, changed anything on his emergency contact information since the last time he’d been at the hospital. His mother was always at the top. If he even suggested changing that, even when he was still married, she probably would have choked him out.

Not really, but it was honestly preferable to listening to another one of her goddamn lectures.

She’d arrived by twelve that evening and had wormed her way into Kyle’s room by 3 am, when the doctor had finally decided that his vitals could be monitored in a more comfortable setting. His nurse Jenette had first insisted that Sheila stay in the waiting room and to come back the following morning. Jenette was sweet, empathetic, patient. She talked to Kyle softly, made sure he had adequate pillows, arrived swiftly when Kyle pushed on the little button on the side of his bed asking for assistance, despite him having pushed it seven times within the first hour of him being in his room. Kyle had instantly taken a liking to her. She reminded him of Stan, who reminded him of a dog: overly giving, willing to do tricks and beg for the slightest shred of affection. They both had that doe-eyed look and blue orbs as pretty as a pool on an informercial,  plus a desire to please that was so strong that any person with a shred of intellect could sniff it out within an hour of meeting them. She never stood a chance against his mother.

“Oh, Bubby,” Sheila moaned, as she took a hold of both of Kyle’s hands.

“Be careful, ma’am!” the nurse chastised, as she started towards them. That was sharper than she’d been with Kyle. Maybe she was fed up with the Broflovski’s shit.

The thought made him grin.

Sheila released Kyle’s hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, as she settled into the chair next to Kyle’s bed. The nurse paused and locked her eyes on Sheila, as if she was afraid to leave the two alone, only leaving after the gaze had gone well past lingering.

Sheila’s hair was fiery mess, pulled up in a frizzy, curly knot. She straightened her hair everyday, but the people that were around the house frequently knew that it took a concentrated effort to tame it, just like it took to get Kyle’s locks under control. Her family knew, and Sheila, and especially Stan and Kyle, who used to joke about his mom looking like a witch until Kyle got sensitive about it in the third grade, realizing his hair was just the same.

She reached out and gripped the bed’s railing.

“Oh, bubby, have you been taking care of yourself? Have they been working you too hard? They’ve been working you too hard, haven’t they?” She sighed dramatically, clenching her fingers around the railing a little tighter. “They’ll be hearing from Gerald. To think those freaks hurt my baby! I’ll have their heads. I’ll have their jobs. You will _neva_ work at that office again.” Her rage was bringing out the Jersey in her.

Kyle wanted to interrupt his mom. It was hard to get in a word edgewise with his mother, but he’d mastered the art eventually. People said they had similar personalities in that respect—they both liked being heard over others. He couldn’t deny that.

At that moment, everything felt like molasses, though. His thoughts were still misty, and they said it would take a few days for his speech to become normal again. He didn’t remember the medical names, just that he wouldn’t be able to say his piece as quickly as normal. That he’d mix up words. That some of them might be lost, the meaning completely there but drawing a blank on the terminology.

His mother would love this.

He tuned her out, made the appropriate nods and motions when necessary. When she lowered her face towards him, he kissed her cheek.

“—And I spoke with Sharon. Stan was over there too. She said that he was planning on coming down tonight, that he was _so_ worried for you, Kyle. I don’t know if he was serious, you know how Stan gets. I wouldn’t be surprised, but he has a baby, you know. He has so much responsibility.”

Yes, he knew. It weirded him out. She had the gayest name ever: Talulah. It sounded like something Reba McEntire would name her child. Like that song _Fancy_. Ugh, Tululah. He didn’t want to think that Stan came up with that name. If anything, it was Craig’s fault. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a wailing country song with the same name somewhere in the country lexicon.

“I just don’t know how he’d make it down tonight, with a baby and everything, but you’ll get a chance to see him. I spoke to the doctor and he said that it would be best for you to either stay in a facility or with family while you recover.”

Kyle’s lips thinned. “No,” he grunted.

“ ** _Kyle_**. Do not tell your mother no, even when you’re feeling sick in the hospital. You are coming home to South Park to stay with us and get better. You haven’t been taking care of yourself. I’m going to make sure you get better properly.”

Wasn’t him speaking a cause for celebration? She should have been praising him like he was only a few months old and he’d said his first damn words. He didn’t want a fucking lecture. Kyle slapped the assistance button on the bed and fell back into the shitty hospital pillows. He rolled away from his mother. Hopefully he could get the nurse to send her away.

“KYLE BROFLOSVKI!” his mother screeched in a tone that he dreaded. She’d probably get her way, but he wasn’t about to give in to her right that instant.

Kyle heard heavy footsteps approach seconds after he pressed the button, which was strange. His nurse was good, but she wasn’t _that_ good. As he rolled over, another body slammed into him, arms immediately wrapping tightly around his shoulders. The person smelled woodsy and sweet, painfully masculine and equally soothing, as if a cheap drugstore guy’s cologne and vanilla body wash had a baby. The weight of the other person was pleasantly heavy on his chest.

“Oh my god, _Kyle_ ,” the person on top of him cried. He was wearing a flannel shirt and had stubble as dark as pepper that felt sandy as it rubbed against Kyle’s cheek. He was warm, so warm on top of him, the heat working its way through Kyle’s hospital gown and scorching his skin.

It was embarrassing, experiencing arousal right then. His cock twitched under the covers and Kyle silently prayed that his body left it at that. He imagined the hair on his elementary teacher Mr. Garrison’s ass, then moved his mental images to children pissing in a pool. Guaranteed boner killer. His mother was in the room. Soon there’d be a nurse too, and there’d be a doctor eventually. He had to calm down.

“Kyle, I was so worried about you. Holy shit, dude. Are you okay?” The person lifted up, looked directly into Kyle’s hazel eyes.

His gaze was as blue as a swimming pool on an infomercial and was deeply, painfully loving. The kind of person that could adore a child, even if they had a dumb as fuck name like Talulah. He’d know that face anywhere.

Stan Marsh. Kyle hadn’t seen him in nearly ten years.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, y'all! So I'm hoping to update this once a week. Sorry for the slow start-Rebecca and Kyle are kind of my friend OTP and I wanted to explore their relationship while in the office. Next week we'll have more time with Kyle and Stan, plus a moment with Tululah. Possibly. We'll see. Any feedback is appreciated. Cheers!


End file.
